


Shortbread and Tea

by sister_wolf



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-03
Updated: 2004-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:06:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/sister_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Inspector Thatcher did leave specific instructions that under <em>no</em> circumstances was I allowed to offer you asylum, allow you to stay here overnight, or extend the protection of the Dominion of Canada to you in any way whatsoever.  However, she did <em>not</em>, in fact, mention anything about offering you tea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shortbread and Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with Aly Malone.

Ray slid out of the GTO, slapping his gloved hands together and shivering as he looked up at the gloomy sky. Dark grey clouds full of snow, hovering low over the city. Channel 9 was predicting eight inches of snow by tomorrow morning—a good night to hole up at home with a six-pack and watch the hockey game. Maybe Fraser would watch it with him. That'd be a lot more fun than sitting at home alone, watching the game with Turtle like he usually did. How sad was that—his two best friends were a Canadian Mountie and a little green turtle. Best friends, hell, _only_ friends. God, he needed to get out more.

Ray trotted up the steps to the Consulate, patting his jacket to reassure himself that the envelope Welsh had given him was still tucked into his inside breast pocket. Opening the front door, he started to yell out Fraser's name, but remembered where he was just in time. He shook himself slightly, tugging his gloves off, wondering why Turnbull wasn't sitting at the receptionist's desk. Well, it was only a few minutes before five, maybe Turnbull was already gone for the day. "Hello?"

There was a muffled crash and an 'ouch!' from the direction of the Ice Queen's office. Turnbull appeared, wearing an apron over his Mountie uniform, with a feather duster in one hand. "Detective Vecchio! Welcome to Canada." He crossed over to the receptionist's desk and sat down, looking up at Ray expectantly. "What can I assist you with today?"

Ray opened his mouth, then shut it, shaking his head and trying not laugh. There was always _something_ with Turnbull. The guy was so weird, he made _Fraser_ look normal by comparison. "Hey, Turnbull. I'm looking for Fraser. He around?" He leaned against the desk casually, pulling the envelope out of his jacket pocket. "Got something for him, from the Chicago PD."

"Ah! Official business." Turnbull nodded knowingly, tapping the side of his nose. "Unfortunately, Constable Fraser is not currently in Canada. Well, that is to say, he might be over Canada by now, or rather, in Canadian airspace, but he is not currently in this small portion of Canada officially known as the Canadian Consulate."

"He's—what? Where'd he go, Turnbull? He didn't call to say he wouldn't be in town. Ice Queen send him somewhere?" At Turnbull's nod, Ray frowned, slumping against the desk. "Well, that sucks." He tapped the envelope against his arm, then tucked it away in his jacket. "Okay. He'll be back soon, won't he? Did he say how long he'll be gone?"

Turnbull looked a little concerned. "I believe he'll return in—oh, dear, I have his itinerary here somewhere…" He started to ransack the desk, pulling papers out of various drawers, muttering to himself worriedly.

Ray took a quick scan of the contents of the desk's inbox and pulled out an Air Canada itinerary. "This what you're looking for?"

"Ah! Yes! Excellent detective work, Detective Vecchio." Turnbull pored over the itinerary for a few minutes, and finally announced, "6:54 pm Tuesday. Or possibly a week from next Tuesday. I'm almost certain, however, that his return flight arrives at Chicago O'Hare International Airport at 6:54 pm. Or possibly a.m."

Ray reached out, covering Turnbull's hand and the itinerary. "It's okay, Turnbull. He'll be here when he gets here. It isn't really all that important. Just a few things he asked Welsh to look into for him." He patted the envelope, tucked away in his jacket again. "I'll hang on to it until he returns. So where's the Ice Queen? Did she go with him to Canada?"

"Inspector Thatcher is currently wrapped in seaweed and experiencing an invigorating saltwater massage," Turnbull said, smiling enthusiastically.

"Wrapped in _what?_?"

Turnbull cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "She's at a spa for four days."

"Gotcha. I'm kinda surprised, though, considering what happened the _last_ time she went to a spa…" Ray shook his head, remembering what a mess that had been. He'd really thought he was screwed, with Volpe dead and IA breathing down his neck. Thank god for Fraser—without him, Ray would be molding in a jail cell right about now.

Turnbull coughed delicately, straightening the papers on his desk to a precise ninety degree angle. "Inspector Thatcher did leave specific instructions that under _no_ circumstances was I allowed to offer you asylum, allow you to stay here overnight, or extend the protection of the Dominion of Canada to you in any way whatsoever. However, she did _not_ , in fact, mention anything about offering you tea." Smiling up at him shyly, Turnbull asked, "Would you care for a cup of tea, detective?"

"Well, I don't know…" Ray was about to refuse, but then he stopped and thought about it. Why the hell not? Not like anyone was waiting for him at home, other than Turtle. "If you can offer me coffee, I'll say yes."

"Certainly! The Consulate has a variety of coffees available, from Colombian to Kona. Inspector Thatcher spent quite some time with a coffee salesman—a very pleasant young man named Sergio—a few weeks ago, and so quite frankly we have more coffee than the Consulate normally goes through in a year."

Hanging up his jacket, Ray grinned. "Sergio, huh? Yeah, that sounds like the Ice Queen. All right then, coffee it is." He followed Turnbull to the kitchen, chuckling to himself. "Are you planning on keeping your frilly apron on, Turnbull?"

"It protects the uniform from damage." Turnbull's ears turned faintly pink as he glanced down at the frilly flowered apron. "But, of course, once the tea and coffee are served, I can remove it." He bustled around the large, drafty kitchen, putting a kettle on to boil. The coffeemaker he excavated from the depths of a cupboard—apparently, the Consulate staff didn't make coffee every day.

"Would you care for some shortbread?" Turnbull asked, offering a plate of—well, they looked a lot more like square cookies to Ray than bread. Crazy Canadians.

"Shortbread. Yeah." Ray reached out and snagged a cookie off the plate and bit into it. "Hey, this is good." He brushed a couple of crumbs away from his lips, leaning against the counter. "Anyway, the frilly apron, it's—um, pretty dorky, Turnbull, but I understand the need for it. Protecting the uniform. When I was married to The Stella and I cooked for her, I would wear an apron if I hadn't taken my uniform off, you know, back in the day before I made Detective and could have my own style." He shrugged, chuckling self-deprecatingly. "It was pink. Had hearts on it. Stella loved it."

"I think that sounds very fetching." Turnbull smiled at Ray warmly. "Pink would go well with your peaches and cream complexion." While Ray was still gaping at him like a landed fish, Turnbull handed him a little matched set of cream and sugar bowls. "Would you be so kind as to put those on the table?"

"Peaches and…" Ray shook his head as he took the bowls from Turnbull. "Clearly, Canada really _is_ another world. And here I was just teasing Fraser when I told him he was from another planet. Apparently, you're from the same place." He walked across the kitchen to the oak table, putting the bowls down at the head of the table. He turned, watching Turnbull. "What else can I do? There's got to be something else, other than sitting here eating my cook—my shortbread and watching you make coffee and tea."

"There's nothing else you need do. You're a guest, detective." Turnbull pulled the kettle off the burner and poured water carefully into a teapot. He pulled two teacups down from an overhead cabinet, balanced them in one hand, picked the teapot up with the other, and brought them over to the table. Remarkably—being Turnbull—he didn't drop or spill anything on his way over.

Ray stood, reaching out to take the teapot from Turnbull. Even if he was a "guest", Ray didn't believe that, not one bit. He came to the Consulate enough to consider himself—well, Ray didn't know what he considered himself, but guest was not it. He flashed a smile at Turnbull and took his teacup, going to the counter to pour himself some coffee and grab the plate of shortbread. "Do you want anything else—no, Turnbull, take off your apron, sit down. Put your feet up or something." He laughed at the scandalized look on Turnbull's face.

Turnbull did not, in fact, put his feet up, but he did take off the apron and sit down. Stirring cream and sugar into his tea, he smiled as he watched Ray dump several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. "You have a sweet tooth, Detective Vecchio."

"Very," Ray said, settling in his chair. "If I had M&M's or… uh, what are those… Smarties?" At Turnbull's nod, Ray continued. "I'd put those in my coffee. I always have a bag or two in my desk at work. Fraser gets me Smarties, sometimes. They're good." He leaned back, tipping his chair slightly so he was resting on the back two legs. "Don't you ever get bored here, by yourself? Ice Queen's gone, Fraser's running around Canada, probably to do something stupid like get her a dress she can't get down here—don't you get lonely here by yourself?"

"It can be… rather quiet here at times." Turnbull took a sip of his tea and hummed happily to himself. "However, it is very restful. When the Inspector is here it's… not terribly peaceful. She can be rather demanding." He seemed to suddenly become aware of the fact that he'd criticized Thatcher. "Of course, she's very dedicated. Detail-oriented. A credit to the Serge."

"A hard-ass. Really, Turnbull, she is. She treats the two of you like you're her harem, always making Fraser run errands for her, sitting you out at that receptionist desk—you two are _cops_. You should act like cops, not like her slaves." Ray shrugged, sighing as he wrapped his hands around his mug, leaning forward. "It's okay, I know you respect her, and you don't want to say anything bad about her. I won't be offended if you don't openly agree." He kicked up slightly, putting a foot on the table, then hooking his other foot on top of it, ankles crossed. He was precariously balanced on the two back legs. "Though, you do realize that whatever you say stays between us. I won't even tell Fraser."

"Well, Constable Fraser's talents could certainly be better utilized," Turnbull confided. "I don't wish to criticize Inspector Thatcher, but, well… Constable Fraser is a bit of a legend to those of us who went through the Depot after him. As for myself… well, I can't say that my talents, such as they are, are being wasted behind a receptionist's desk."

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, Turnbull. They wouldn't have let you become a Mountie if you didn't have it in you. I mean, they don't just let any Joe Blow off the street become a cop, and I doubt the Mounties do either. I'm sure you've got some great talent locked away in there that Thatcher just hasn't discovered yet." Ray shrugged and pulled his feet off the table, leaning forward. He rested his elbows on the table. "I mean, look at me. You wouldn't think I was a good cop, if you just saw me day to day, but I am. I have my hunches. You'd be surprised how good those are."

Turnbull looked flustered. "I don't—I mean—well. If my great talent hasn't surfaced yet, I rather doubt it ever will." He cocked his head to one side, assessing Ray. "However, I've never had any doubt that you are an excellent detective. Your methods may be unconventional, but they clearly get results. Constable Fraser told me about your citations." He ducked his head shyly. "I always thought—if I were a better police officer—I'd have wanted to do undercover work. Like you."

Ray scratched his head, blushing faintly. He didn't like making a big deal out of his citations. Didn't even really care to have them. "I was only doing my job, Turnbull, not—I mean." He shrugged. "I understand the honor, and appreciate it, but I didn't do anything that any other good cop wouldn't have done." He sighed, tilting his head and watching Turnbull. "I think you'd actually be pretty good at undercover. I mean, think about it. I bet you got teased for being a dork when you were a kid, right?" Turnbull nodded. "Yeah, well, you still kind of are—it's a good thing, Turnbull, don't get upset—and no one would take you seriously. Get a little bit of subterfuge under your belt, you could sneak right in and no one would have a clue. They'd all think you were just bumbling around and you'd get the job done with them none the wiser."

Smiling mischievously, Turnbull admitted, "I do that sometimes. To the Inspector. She already thinks I'm an idiot, so sometimes… I exaggerate things. Act more clumsy than I really am, get simple directions wrong, that sort of thing." He grinned down at his teacup. "It's really rather wrong of me, but sometimes I just can't help myself." Taking a sip of tea, he murmured smugly, "She'll never tell _me_ to wash the Consulate windows again."

Ray laughed out loud, watching Turnbull, seeing him through a new light of sorts. He was more than the bumbling idiot that worked with his best friend. He was sneaky, and mischievous, and Ray kind of liked him. Saw potential in him. "You know, maybe one day, one Saturday when you aren't busy, I can take you around Chicago, show you a little of what I know. I'd tell you, but see, being undercover isn't something you can be _taught_ , it's something you learn. We'll find those talents, Turnbull, 'cause I know they're there."

"That would be lovely, Detective Vecchio. I'd really appreciate that. It's very kind of you to think of me. I'd enjoy it a great deal. If it's not too much trouble." Turnbull stumbled to a halt, blushing, and simply said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Ray grinned.

Turnbull fidgeted with his teacup for a moment, and asked, "Would you care for some more coffee?" At Ray's nod, he stood and crossed to the counter to fetch the coffeepot. Passing the window above the sink, he glanced outside and paused. "Oh dear."

"What's 'oh dear'?" Ray asked, standing up and coming over to the window. Outside, the world was covered in slick, gleaming ice. Freezing rain.

"Oh dear." Turnbull tensed up again, going into hyper-Mountie mode. "The weather report did mention a possibility of freezing rain, not more than a 20% chance, but I still should have mentioned it before delaying your departure from the Consulate. I'm afraid this is my fault, and I do apologize for that. However, at this point it would probably be best if you waited to leave until the streets have been sanded, as I believe driving in the current conditions could be quite dangerous."

"Hey, not your fault, Turnbull, don't sweat it. You guys get ESPN, right?"

"Yes, of course. Why?" Turnbull asked, looking completely baffled.

Ray shook his head. _Wow, you'd think no one ever wants to just hang out with the guy._ "There's a game on tonight. 'Hawks versus the Leafs. You maybe want to watch it with me? I know you're a big fan of, uh, of curling, but if you wouldn't mind—"

There was something endearing about the way that Turnbull's face lit up. "While it is true that I am a devotee of the noble sport of curling, I do enjoy watching the occasional game of hockey. I find it rather—invigorating, actually."

"Cool." Ray grinned at him.

"If you'd like, I could make us a batch of poutine to eat as we watch—" At Ray's blank look, Turnbull explained, "French fries with cheese curds and gravy."

Ray laughed, shaking his head. "Weird Canadian food. Sure, go for it. I'll try anything once."

It was strange. He'd come over hoping to talk Fraser into watching the game with him and ended up with his bizarre co-worker instead, but he really didn't feel disappointed at all. Turnbull was a good guy, weird and Canadian, yeah, but Ray was beginning to think that maybe weird and Canadian wasn't a bad combination at all.

"We got shortbread, tea, and, uh, poutine. I think we're set," Ray said, executing a little dance step.

Turnbull laughed, looking surprised. "If you're not careful, you may find yourself becoming Canadian, Detective Vecchio."

"Ray. Call me Ray."

"Thank you, Det—I mean, Ray." Turnbull coughed, his ears turning pink. "Renfield, or Ren, if you prefer."

"Ren," Ray said, trying it out. And hey, it looked like maybe Ray was finally managing to make a friend beyond Fraser and Turtle. Cool. "Coolness."


End file.
